


[untitled again, sorry]

by TarvaBaggins



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29563293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarvaBaggins/pseuds/TarvaBaggins
Summary: Túrin had never seen his friend like this before…and if he had anything to say about it, he never would again.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion & Túrin Turambar





	[untitled again, sorry]

**Author's Note:**

> This *clap* is *clap* a *clap* platonic *clap* fic *clap*. I know there are lots people in the fandom who consider Beleg and Túrin to be an item, but I don’t. To me, they really come across as just super super close but still unromantic. If you ship them, and you read the fic from that point of view, that’s your business, but that’s not what I had in mind when I wrote it.

Túrin’s fingers drummed impatiently on the table as inwardly he cursed the orc-arrow that had put him for a time out of service less than a week before.

_I should be out there with them._

He had been staying with and fighting alongside the elven warriors on the northern marches for only a few months, and already he had received his first serious injury. The arrow had not gone very deep into his shoulder, but the point of it had been poisoned and they had told him it would be some days before he could go back to fighting. But staying behind at one of the lodges while the others went to combat…! That was agony. He stood up and went to the door, looking out at the dusk-filled forest.

_This time especially…_

Today from one of the scouts there had come word of a large band of orcs passing near the borders, orcs of a breed taller and broader than most. Túrin loved a challenge. He’d begged to be let come along.

_“Please, I’m ready. It’s healed enough. Let me come.”_

_“No, Túrin. One more day.”_

_“But it’s healed. There is no more pain.”_

_Beleg’s hand on his shoulder. His own involuntary wince, hardly noticeable to any but one who knew him well._

_“There is still pain, Túrin. Tomorrow it will be whole enough, perhaps. But not today.”_

Túrin cursed that wince. He had worked for years, trying to make it so that he could endure pain without showing it. But Beleg had always been able to see.

_What am I so afraid of tonight? Why am I so uneasy?_

He turned back into the lodge and lit one of the little lamps, setting it on the table. Then he sat down to wait. They would be back soon, he was sure. In fact, it was rather surprising that they weren’t back already. They had left early in the afternoon, and they were quite near enough to the border to be able to make quick work of the orcs.

Ugh, but everything was so quiet! Even the birds were hushed: all there was to hear was the droning of the forest insects, but that was an empty sound. Even complete silence would have been louder than that. They made it seem as if everything was trying to be normal but it wasn’t.

Slamming his fist down on the table, Túrin stood up. Trying to shake off his restlessness, he paced the floor two or three times, but it didn’t help. He went back to the door and looked out again.

There! His elf-trained eyes caught a glimpse of movement among the trees. The others were returning. At last. Túrin tried to relax, not understanding why he still felt like this. The buzzing of the insects in the still air…the rustle of the highest leaves up where the air moved without wind…it was like it was any other summer evening, except that he was waiting here as the others returned. Perhaps that was all. And he watched as the elves came closer in the ever-deepening shadows of the trees.

Then with a sudden realization he saw that one of them was carrying something…something large…

_One is hurt…_

So that was why. Túrin had seen injured elves carried back before, had seen the silent pain in their eyes as their wounds were treated. He’d even seen them die before. Sometimes they were already beyond help when they were brought back. It hurt him to see it all. He gave one last glance, then turned back into the lodge, feeling sick at heart. Broodingly he paced the floor again, looking down at his feet as they passed each other. And then there came the sound of voices outside, and the first whisper of elven boots on the floor, and Túrin looked up.

Beleg.

Beleg was the one who was hurt.

And he wasn’t moving.

Túrin stumbled forward amid a sudden chaos of voices. Two of the other elves caught him and tried to hold him back, but he tore himself free and followed in a daze as Maeron carried Beleg toward the row of cots along the back wall and gently laid him on one of them. As he did so, the cloak Beleg was wrapped in slipped from one of his shoulders and Túrin caught sight of the makeshift bandage bound about his chest, dark with blood. The elf’s breathing was shallow and slow, inaudible and hardly visible, like that of one who was dying. Túrin closed his eyes and turned his face away. Suddenly it was hard for him to stand, and he swayed slightly. Maeron put an arm around Túrin to steady him and tried to pull him away, but Túrin shook his head and opened his eyes. One of the other healers was there now, kneeling by the cot, laying a hand on Beleg’s forehead. At the touch Beleg moaned softly. Something twisted inside of Túrin and tears sprang to his eyes. He fell to his knees by Beleg’s head, resting his arms on the edge of the cot and hiding his face in them.

“Beleg,” he whispered, “please no.” He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he stiffened and pulled away, and the hand left.

_No…no. This cannot be real. Beleg…_

After a minute he raised his head and saw that the healer had removed the bandage, and Túrin cringed at the sight of the wound. He turned his face the other direction and laid his head down on the cot next to Beleg’s, his right hand toying gently with a lock of the elf’s hair.

_Please, Beleg._

He could hear and feel the healer at work. There was the soft swish of cloth being soaked in water, and the sound of the wet cloth brushing against torn skin and dried blood. Beleg stirred weakly and another moan escaped his unconscious lips. Túrin’s left hand searched for Beleg’s and grasped it tightly.

_No…Beleg, I need you._

Without realizing he was doing it, Túrin began humming a gentle tune, and after a minute was murmuring words he hadn’t remembered that he knew. The conversation of the other elves dwindled as they finished cleaning their gear. The healer was wrapping clean bandages around Beleg now, but Beleg no longer showed any sign of responsiveness, not even a catch in his faint breathing.

_Don’t die. Please._

Túrin moved his head a little closer to Beleg’s and closed his eyes as he fought back tears. There was nothing he could do, he knew that…and it terrified him. His friend had always been so strong. It was horrible to see him completely helpless like this.

_Beleg, no, you can’t die before me. I won’t let it happen. It isn’t right. I’m the mortal one…you’re the one who will live on and remember me after I’m gone. It can’t end this way._

The healer stood up and left, but Túrin didn’t even notice. Gently he touched Beleg’s face with his fingertips—why was it so cold? he was still alive, if barely—and slowly traced along the jawline. The elf’s heartbeat was too weak for Túrin to feel it. Túrin buried his face in his arms again.

_Beleg, Beleg, I would never have let this happen if only I had been there. Why did you make me remain behind?_

He looked up and through his tears gazed at Beleg’s face. He realized that he knew and loved every line of it. He put out his hand again and gently traced the outline of the tapered ear, touched the still eyelids and wept inside when there was no response.

_Never again will you fight without me by your side, Beleg, I swear it._

One of the other elves came up behind and touched his shoulder.

“Túrin, come away,” he urged softly.

“No,” Túrin replied. “I will stay here. I mean to be here when he wakes.”

“Túrin—”

Túrin shook his head. “He will wake, before long. He is too strong not to.”

The other elf sat down beside Túrin and gently brushed a strand of hair from Beleg’s face. “We all love him, Túrin. We all want him to recover. But it is foolish to hope when…” His voice trailed off.

“No,” Túrin replied softly, a flicker of determination rising within him. If it had ever been possible for one to will another to live, Túrin was doing so now. “No, there is always hope. You will see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously Beleg does recover, because he’s around later in the story. He’s canonically got this remarkable ability to recover from things he shouldn’t be able to recover from, so that he doesn’t stay dead until he’s definitely killed for good.
> 
> I wasn't sure how to rate this one. I figured that T was a pretty safe bet...?


End file.
